May Brooke

By Anna Hanson Dorsey

Anna Hanson Dorseywas an American novelist and writer. A convert to Catholicism in 1840, shewas a pioneer of Catholic literature in the United States.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Krill Press
• Release date: May 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781531275211

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MAY BROOKE

..................

Anna Hanson Dorsey

YURITA PRESS

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Copyright © 2016 by Anna Hanson Dorsey

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

May Brooke

By

Anna Hanson Dorsey

May Brooke

Published by Yurita Press

New York City, NY

First published circa 1896

Copyright © Yurita Press, 2015

All rights reserved

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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CHAPTER I.

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Do you think they will be here to-night, sir?

Don’t know, and don’t care.

The road is very bad,—after a pause, that skirts the Hazel property.

Well, what then; what then, little May?

The carriage might be overturned, sir; or, the horses might shy a little to the left, and go over the precipice into the creek.

Is that all?

Is it not dreadful to think of, sir?

Well, I don’t know; I should be sorry to lose the horses—

Oh, sir! and my cousin! Did you forget her?

I care nothing about her. I suppose my forefathers must have committed some crime for which I am to suffer, by being made, willy-nilly, the guardian of two silly, mawkish girls.

But, sir, you have been very kind to me, and it shall be the endeavor of my life to prove my gratitude.

Very fine, without being in the least consoling! I’d as lief have two African monkeys under my care—don’t laugh—it exasperates, and makes me feel like doing as I should do, if I had the cursed animals—

How is that, sir?

Beat you. I hate womankind. Most of all do I hate them in their transition stages. They are like sponges, and absorb every particle of evil that the devil sprinkles in the air, until they learn to be young hypocrites—triflers—false—heartless.

Oh, dear uncle! has such been your experience? Have you ever met with such women?

Have I ever met with such women, you holy innocent? I have never met with any other. Now, be still.

Oh! Uncle Stillinghast—

What!

I pity you, sir; indeed, I pity you. Something very dreadful must in times past have embittered you—

You are a fool, little May. Don’t interrupt me again at your peril.

No, sir.

And so there was a dead silence, except when the rain and sleet lashed the window-panes, or a lump of coal crumbled into a thousand glowing fragments, and opened a glowing abyss in the grate; or the cat uncurled herself on the rug, and purred, while she fixed her great winking eyes on the blaze. The two persons who occupied the room were an old man and a young maiden. He was stern, and sour-looking, as he sat in his high-back leather chair, with a pile of ledgers on the table before him,—the pages of which he examined with the most incomparable patience. A snuff-colored wig sat awry on his head, and a snuff-colored coat, ornamented with large horn buttons, drooped ungracefully from his high, stooping shoulders. His neckcloth was white, but twisted, soiled, and tied carelessly around his thin, sinewy throat. His legs were cased in gray lamb’s-wool stockings, over which his small-clothes were fastened at the knees with small silver buckles. His face was not originally cast in such a repulsive mould, but commerce with the world, and a succession of stinging disappointments in his early manhood, had woven an ugly mask over it, from behind which glimpses of his former self, on rare occasions, shone out. Such was Mark Stillinghast at the opening of our story: old, cynical, and rich, but poor in friendship, and without any definite ideas of religion, except, that if such a thing really existed, it was a terra incognita, towards which men rather stumbled than ran.

Opposite to him, on a low crimson chair, as antique in its pattern as the owner of the mansion, sat a maiden, who might have passed her seventeenth summer. She was not beautiful, and yet her face had a peculiar charm, which appealed directly to the softer and kindlier emotions of the heart. Her eyes, large, gray and beautifully fringed with long, black lashes, reminded one of calm mountain lakes, into whose very depths the light of sun and stars shine down, until they beam with tender sweetness, and inward repose. There was a glad, happy look in her face, which came not from the fitful, feverish glow of earth, but, like rays from an inner sanctuary, the glorious realities of faith, hope, and love, which possessed her soul, diffused their mysterious influence over her countenance. Thick braids of soft, brown hair, were braided over her round, childlike forehead: and her dress of some dark, rich color, was in admirable harmony with her peculiar style. Her proportions were small and symmetrical, and it was wonderful to see the serious look of dignity with which she sat in that old crimson chair, knitting away on a comfort, as fast as her little white fingers could shuffle the needles. For what purpose could such a fragile small creature have been created? She looked as if it would not be amiss to put her under a glass-case, or exhibit her as a specimen of wax-work; or hire her out, at so much per night, to fashionable parties, to play fairy in the Tableaux. But the wind howled; the leafless branches of the old trees without were crushed up, shivering and creaking against the house; the frozen snow beat a wild reville on the windows, and May’s face grew very sad and thoughtful. She dropped her knitting, and with lips apart listened intently.

Thank God! They are come. I am sure I hear carriage-wheels, uncle! she exclaimed, clasping her hands together.

Of course; I knew they would come. There was to be no such good luck as their not coming, said Mr. Stillinghast, looking annoyed. One sister ran off—married a papist—died, and left you on my hands. I was about sending you off again, when news came that your father had died on his voyage home from Canton, and been buried in the deep: so here you stayed. Brother—spendthrift, shiftless, improvident—marries a West Indian papist; turns one; dies with his wife, or, at least, soon after her leaving another ne’er-do-weel on my hands. I wish you’d all gone to purgatory together. To be shut up in my old days with two wild papists is abominable! muttered the old man, slamming the ledgers together, until every thing on the table danced. He pushed back his chair, and in another moment the door opened, and a tall, slender, beautiful girl entered, clad in deep mourning, with a wealth of golden curls rolling over her transparently fair cheeks. She came with a graceful, but timid air, towards Mr. Stillinghast; and holding out her hand, said in a low, sweet tone,

My uncle?

Yes, I have the misfortune to be your uncle; how do you do?

I am well, sir, I thank you, she replied, whilst she cast down her eyes to conceal the tears which suffused them.

I won’t pretend, he said, at last, to say you are welcome, or that I am glad to see you, because I should lie; but you are here now, and I can’t help it, neither can you, I suppose; therefore, settle yourself as quickly as possible in your new way of living. She will show you what is necessary, and both of you keep as much out of my way as possible. He then took his candlestick, lighted his candle, and retired, leaving the poor girl standing with a frightened, heart-broken look, in the middle of the floor. For a moment she looked after him; then a sharp cry burst from her lips, and she turned to rush out into the wintry storm, when she suddenly felt herself enfolded in some one’s arms, who led her to the warmest corner of the sofa, untied her bonnet, folded back the dishevelled curls, and kissed the tears away from her cold, white cheeks. It was May, whose heart had been gushing over with tenderness and sympathy, who had longed to throw her arms around her, and, welcome her home the moment she entered the house, but who dared not interfere with her uncle’s peculiar ways, or move until he led.

Do not mind him, dear Helen; it is his ways: he seems rough and stern, but in reality he is kind and good, dear, she exclaimed.

"You are very kind; but, oh, I did not expect such a reception as this.

I hoped for something very, very different. I cannot stay here—it

would kill me," she sobbed, struggling to disengage her hand from

Mary’s.

Yes you will, dear, pleaded May. Uncle Stillinghast is like our old clock—it never strikes the hour true, yet the hands are always right to a second. So do try, and not to mind.

Who are you?

I? asked May, looking with a smile of astonishment at her. I am your cousin, May Brooke; an orphan like yourself, dear, to whom our uncle has given house and home.

Are you happy here?

Very happy. I have things to contend with sometimes which are not altogether agreeable, but I trip along over them just as I do over muddy places in the street, for fear, you know, of soiling my robe, if I floundered in them! said May, laughing. Helen did not understand the hidden and beautiful meaning couched under May’s expressions; she had heard but little of her baptismal robe since the days of her early childhood, and had almost forgotten that she was to carry it unspotted to the judgment-seat of Christ.

I am glad you are here—such a nice, soft-voiced little one, said

Helen, passing her long, white hand over May’s head.

I am glad, too; so come with me, and take something warm. Your supper is on the kitchen hearth. Come, said May, rising.

Where—to the kitchen? Do you eat in the kitchen?

I lunch there sometimes; it is a very nice one.

Excuse me; I do not wish any thing.

But a cup of hot tea, and some nice toast, after your fatiguing, wet journey, argued May.

Nothing, I thank you, was the haughty reply.

Perhaps you wish to retire?

Yes! Oh, that I could go to sleep, and never wake again, she cried, bursting into tears.

You will feel better to-morrow, dear, said May, gently, and then it will soothe you to reflect that each trial has its heavenly mission; and the thorns which pierce us here give birth to flowers in heaven, which angels weave into the crown for which we contend!

I am not a saint! was the curt reply.

But you are a Catholic? asked May, chilled by her cold manner.

Yes, she replied, languidly, but I am too ill to talk.

Refusing all aid, after they got into their chamber, Helen disrobed herself; and while May’s earnest soul was pouring out at the foot of the cross its adoration and homage, she threw herself on her knees, leaned her head on her arm, and yielded to a perfect storm of grief and fury; which, although unacknowledged, raged none the less, while her burning tears, unsanctified by humility, or resignation, embittered the selfish heart which they should have sweetened and refreshed.

CHAPTER II.

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MAY SLEPT BUT LITTLE THAT night. The low sobs and shivering sighs of Helen, disturbed and troubled her, and she longed to go to her, and whisper in her ear all those arguments and hopeful promises which she felt would have consoled her under the same circumstances; but it was a wild, defiant kind of grief, which she thought had better exhaust itself, so she lay quite still until towards dawn, when it ceased, and the sound of low regular breathing, assured her that she had fallen asleep. She rose up gently, wrapped her wadded gown about her, lowered the blinds, and closed the shutters, that the light might not disturb Helen; then laid an additional blanket over her, for it was bitter cold, and placed the candle which she had lighted behind an old-timed Chinese screen, that formed a sort of a niche in a corner of the room, which she, in her pious thoughtfulness, had converted into an oratory. A small round table, covered with white drapery, supported a statue of the Immaculate Mother, a porcelain shelf for holy water and her prayer-book. Over it hung an old and rare crucifix of carved ivory, stained with color which time had softened to the hues of life, while the features wore that mingled look of divine dignity and human woe which but few artists, in their delineations of the thorn-crowned head, can successfully depict. It had been brought from Spain many years before by her father, with a cabinet picture of Mater Dolorosa, which now hung over it. Both were invaluable, not only on account of their artistic excellence and age, but as mementos of her father, and incentives to devotion. Thither she now went to offer the first fruits of the day to heaven in mingled thanksgiving and prayer. Almost numbed with the intense cold, she felt inclined to abridge her devotions, but she remembered the cold, dreary journey of the holy family from Nazareth to Bethlehem—the ruggedness of the road, and the bitter winds which swept through the mountain defiles around them—then she lingered in the poor stable, and knelt with the shepherds beside the manger where Jesus Christ in the humility of his sacred humanity reposed. She pictured to herself the Virgin Mother in the joyful mystery of her maternity, bending over him with a rapture too sublime for words; and St. Joseph—wonderfully dignified as the guardian of divinity, and of her whom the most high had honored, leaning on his staff near them. Shall I dare complain? thought May, while these blessed images came into her heart warming it with generous love. No sweet and divine Lord, let all human ills, discomforts, repinings, and love of self vanish before these sweet contemplations. With thee, in Bethlehem, poverty and sorrow grow light; and the weariness of the rough ways of life no more dismay. Let me follow with thee, sweet mother, after his footsteps, until Calvary is crowned by a sacrifice and victim so divine that angels, men, and earth wonder; let me, with thee, linger by his cross, follow him to his sepulture, and rejoice with thee in his resurrection. Do not let us suppose that May, in the overflowing of her devout soul, forgot others, and thought only of herself; oh, no! that charity, without which, all good works are as sounding brass, animated her faith; as tenderly and lovingly she plead at the mercy seat for her stern old guardian; and although she knew that he scorned all religion, and would have given her rough jibes and scoffs for her charity, she prayed none the less for his salvation; and now she sought Heaven to strengthen and console the wounded and bereaved stranger who had come amongst them. By the time she left her oratory, she had laid by a store of strength and happiness, more than sufficient for the trials of the day. Yet May was not faultless. She had a quickness and sharpness of temper, which very often tempted her to the indulgence of malice and uncharitableness; and a proud spirit, which could scarcely brook injustice. But these natural defects were in a measure counterbalanced